


John's Journey

by Tindomerelhloni



Series: Dear John Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: <3, Angst, Did I say angst?, Healing, I Don't Even Know, I don't know where this is taking me, I wanted a break from writing lol, John Watson - Freeform, John's a stubborn arse hole who wont let me stop channeling him, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Part of the "Dear John" world, Recovery, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock helps John heal, Thank you FCH for all your help and support with the first part!!!!!, The story of John's recovery, Therapy, Watch for more tags, probably will have smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-08-26 01:36:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16672291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tindomerelhloni/pseuds/Tindomerelhloni
Summary: Find me on Discord Tindomerelhloni#1791





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FourCornersHolmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/gifts).



> Find me on Discord Tindomerelhloni#1791

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be the story of John recovering. It'll bounce around in the timeline of "Dear John" BEFORE the last chapter, so before they end up with a child. I'm not dating them. I'm just leaving the chapter's names as "one, two, three, etc" 
> 
> I don't know where this will take me, I don't know how long it will be, or if Blood will want to write? I just know that my brain is popping out ideas, and some of them are worth writing. 
> 
> I don't know how often I'll update.

John lay curled on the sofa, blanket covering all but his head, watching Sherlock as he awkwardly puttered around their lounge.  

The blanket acted as a type of shell for John. Having gone months without one, it was a luxury as well as, quite literally, a security blanket. The blanket went everywhere with him while he was in their flat. John had only left once, and after a panic attack next to a display of energy bars at Tescos, he hadn’t left again.  

He watched as Sherlock moved stacks of papers and books about the room. Going through the motions of cleaning, but in reality, he was simply just moving the mess around. The only clean spot in the room was the windowsill by the sofa. It was cluttered, but even an untrained eye could tell that it was well taken care of. Half a dozen succulents were in different colored pots of varying sizes. They were well tended and flourishing. 

“Sherlock...” 

It was hardly a whisper but Sherlock’s back went rigid and he stopped halfway to the bookshelf, the book in his hand forgotten. He said nothing, didn’t turn to look at John, hardly daring to believe that his husband had spoken. It had been two days since he’d heard John speak.   
  


“Sherlock...” John repeated, his voice a fraction stronger. Sherlock slowly turned, as if he were afraid a sudden movement would scare John away, and timidly met his husband's gaze. 

“Yes, John?” He matched Johns volume, hardly daring to even whisper. 

“I feel like I’m drowning like I’m slipping away. My thoughts are trying to take me away from you...” Johns' voice was hollow, he’d been put on a strong antidepressant shortly after coming home, and while both John and Sherlock knew it was the wrong one for John, it would be another two weeks before their insurance would cover a different medication. So, stubbornly, as was Johns way, he insisted on staying on the medication that made him numb. Insisting it was better than the nightmares and day terrors. 

Not sure how to answer Sherlock just gave John a sad smile and stayed where he was, across the room where hopefully John couldn’t see the tears glistening in his eyes. 

“Help me to bed?” John asked, grunting as he struggled to sit up. Sherlock was by his side in an instant, offering assistance off the couch. Helping John around the flat was Sherlock’s main chance to touch John, and he ate up every second of it. It took two full minutes to get John down the short little hall, and another five to get him comfortable in bed, buried under a mound of blankets and pillows. Just as Sherlock was turning to leave John, he was shocked by John who patted the bed beside him in an open invitation to join him. 

They’d shared a bed at nice ever since Johns arrival back home, but neither of them slept much. John from nightmares and Sherlock from feeling utterly helpless. But this was new, John had yet to suggest that Sherlock share bed space with him for any reason other than sleep. 

Once Sherlock was carefully situated so he was close, but not touching John, his husband grunted in discomfort as he slowly rolled over and looked at him. 

“Talk to me. Ground me. Keep me from floating away.” John reached out and rested his hand on top of one of Sherlock’s. 

Placing his other hand on top and gently sliding his thumb over John’s hand Sherlock half shrugged. “What do you want me to talk about.”

“Anything. About your time without me, about finishing uni for the summer, about what we’ll do to your brother the first time he tells us to our face that keeping me from you was for our own good, about what we’ll do to Moran whenever get our hands on him. John shuddered at the name, but his voice didn’t falter. 

“My time without you...” Sherlock choked back a sob, cleared his throat and tried to continue without crying. “I didn’t take the news well. Mycroft delivered your things, from camp... your enlistment photo.” 

Sherlock shifted a bit on the bed, his knee accidentally touching John’s. He froze and was about to pull away when John applied a bit of pressure, strengthening the point of contact. 

“I was numb. I spent the first day in my chair, staring at your chair while hugging one of your jumpers. I don’t even know if I cried. I held on to the faction of hope that you were alive. But as the days went on my ever worrying brain provided me with vivid pictures of you. Both alive and being tortured, or dead, body alone somewhere.“

Tears ran down Sherlock’s face, and because he was laying on his side the trickled down the side of his face and pooled by his ears, soaking into the bedding.  

“My mind festered, hundreds of scenarios flitted through my brain every minute of every day. I missed days of school, but Doctor Nikiforov came to see me, after my 5th day of missing classes. He found me much like you were minutes ago on our sofa. The next day he and his husband forced me to eat, forced me to bathe, and he handed me a stack of missed work. He’d spoken with the other teachers, and the Dean explained why I was absent. It was agreed that if I could pass my finals, they’d allow me to finish the year.”

“And did you?” John’s voice was like music to Sherlock’s ears. It took all his willpower to pull his hand away from Johns to dry his eyes, but he did so quickly, then returned to softly sliding his fingers over the back of John’s hand. 

“Yes. Doctors Nikiforov, Viktor, and his husband Yuuri would come over a few times a week, helping me with any questions I had on my schoolwork, but mainly ensuring I ate and kept myself alive.  I finished my work at uni, maybe not with the grades I know I’m capable of, but I graduated. I did it for you, knowing that’s what you would have wanted.”

Sherlock paused to sniffle, and John nodded. 

“One night, after coming home from a walk I’d forced myself to take...” Sherlock stopped rubbing the back of Johns' hand, instead cupping his hand around it and sweeping, squeezing, “I passed a man sitting on a bench that was clearly selling. I asked for some... coke...” Sherlock closed his eyes, unwilling to see the look on Johns' face, as he admitted to his shortcomings.  

“He sold me some, enough that I could end it... everything. I wanted to end the constant pain. But as I walked home, the bag burning a hole in my pocket. It hit me that I’d used your money to buy it, money you’d died for.  I was minutes away from home, minutes away from ending my own life. But instead, I got a cab and went to the Yard. I bumped into Lestrade, and over the course of a week, we arrested the very man who’d sold to me, his supplier, and two other sellers. Lestrade was promoted to Detective Inspector after that.”

“Sherlock,” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand back and shuffled even closer to his husband, to the man who’d so patiently been waiting, and with a shaky huff of breath, leaned in for a kiss. Sherlock whimpered at the contact and John actually relaxed. He rested his head on the same pillow as Sherlock, close enough that they could feel each other's breath. “I’m glad you didn’t kill yourself. Not sure what would have happened... if I came home to that.” John’s eyes were growing heavy... he’d had physio that morning, and his body still needed healing, on top of tiring quickly.

“Sherlock?” He half whispered half mumbled, curling up against Sherlock, absorbing his warmth, allowing himself to lower his defenses and trust his husband to not hurt him.

“Yes, John?”

“Hold me?”

 

“Any time,” Sherlock gently draped an arm around John, taking care not to put pressure John’s left shoulder. John let out an audible sigh, then within moments was fast asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

“That was utterly pointless!” John growled as Sherlock took his cane in one hand and helped him into the waiting car with the other. It was a juggle Sherlock’s was getting adept to.   
  
“Yes, well,” Sherlock cut in pointedly as he gingerly helped lift John's bad leg inside the car, “therapy seems to be more productive if you actually _talk_ during your sessions.”   
  
Sighing Sherlock shut the door and hurried around to the other side of the car, and nodded to the driver. Mycroft had, in a way to get back into their good graces,  given them a car and driver on an extended loan.   
  
“Write a blog!” John was still complaining as if he hadn’t heard Sherlock’s _advice_ when Sherlock slipped into the car. He secretly didn’t mind, hearing John talk, even if it was complaining about a botched therapy session, it was better than the haunting silence that more often than not filled their flat. “Write a blog about everything that happens to me. Nothing happens to me, anymore... and I’m sure as hell not blogging about my days being tortured.” 

Sherlock sighed and stared at John until his husband let out a disgusted scoff and buckled himself in. Only once John was buckled did the driver start the car, and within moments they were being wooshed through London traffic, headed back to home. John was on new medication. He was no longer numb and simply going through the motions anymore. Now he was struggling with _too many_ emotions. While they believed they’d finally found the right medication, it would be a while until they found the correct dose. Until then, they were burdened with mood swings. Lots of mood swings.

“You could start with what it was like to be an Army Doctor,” Sherlock suggested as he looked out the front window, not daring to meet his Husband’s eyes. John’s anger was on a slow simmer, which meant Sherlock was on high alert. The slightest thing could set John off, and an angry outburst would only lead to a panic attack, which would then lead to John curled up within himself for an undertenant amount of time.

“No one wants to hear that.” John spat out, shifting so his injured leg was a little less cramped.

“I did.” Sherlock injected, “in fact, I loved hearing about it.”

“Not everyone is you.”

“Tell the story of how we met?” Sherlock offered, not because he wanted his story plastered over the internet, but because Doctor Thompson was right, John _did_ need to get quite a bit off his chest.

“Write about our chanced meeting, about how you put up with my stubborn arse, how you overcame hurdles and torment from your peers over our courtship. About our first meeting, though leave the bit about the towels out.”

“And leave the best part out?” John laughed. He actually laughed. Sherlock’s head swiveled to stare at John as if John had just uttered London’s darkest secret. “That was,” John let out one last chuckle and let his lips twitch into some sort of semblance of a smile, “by far one of the best moments of my life. You, naked save for two towels, staring at me like a rabbit in the headlights.”

“Yes, well… I’m glad you enjoyed it. I was so scared I farted. Nerves instantly made my stomach do backflips.”

“Wait, wait,” John licked his lips and for a moment he looked like himself as he looked Sherlock up and down. “You _farted?_ ” a smile tugged at his lips as he recalled that day to memory. 

“I’m afraid so. I was mortified, not only at being caught in nothing but a towel but at farting the first time I laid my eyes on you! Why do you think I hid in my room?” Sherlock felt a slight flush creep over his cheeks at the memory.

“I thought that you were just embarrassed at being caught naked, but…” John shook his head, his lips still raised in a smile, one that reached his eyes, “knowing that makes the story even better. Maybe I _will_ blog about it.” John turned, looked his husband square in the eye while continuing to smile, and reached his hand across the seat in a clear invitation. Sherlock readily took it, and he laced his fingers through Johns.

They lapsed into silence.  Not the kind of silence that made Sherlock constantly on edge, but a comforting one. While John’s smile faded, and he returned to looking out the window, he didn’t release his hold on Sherlock’s hands.

Ella Thompson, his therapist, had told him to find a happy pace. A memory or moment in his life, something to focus on. He thought she was selling him a false fix, the type you’d find at a small town country fair, but now he wasn’t so sure. The memory of his first time seeing the man who would be his husband, now that was a memory that could shine even in the darkest of thoughts.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

Later that night, while Sherlock was engrossed in an experiment, John booted up his laptop and searched for free blogging sites. He found one that didn’t look like it would be too difficult to make edits on his own and began to type in his slow, plodding manner.   


 

**_The Blog of Captain John Watson Holmes_ **

_I am recently home from being a Prisoner of War.  There, I said it. I spent roughly two months as a prisoner in hostile Afghanistan. And while I am not, as of yet, ready to tell the story of my torture, my therapist said a blog would help me. That writing down everything that happened/happens to me would help._

_My time spent missing is still too painful to write about, plus my husband deserves to hear it first._

_Which brings me to the reason for my first blog entry._

_My husband. Sherlock Watson-Holmes and I met by chance. I just happened to be on the receiving end of a letter sent by a charity. The charity would take letters, mostly written by children, that were written specifically for an anonymous soldier. I’d received a few letters of the sort in the past. They were cute pictures, drawn by children. One was of a rainbow and something that looked like uniDUCK. It was clearly a duck… with a horn… flying around a rainy sky. Needless to say it made me laugh._

_Then one day, on the 8th of April I’m 2005, I received the most pretentious, snarky letter you could ever imagine._

_Sherlock Holmes, then not my husband, had been instructed to write a letter to an anonymous soldier. In which he called his brother some very, shall we say, colorful names, and informed me that he was, unwillingly, forced into rehab for a drug addiction. He was so snarky, and clearly lonely, that I couldn’t resist writing back. Little did I know that doing so, that simple act of writing a letter, would cause me to form a relationship with the greatest man I’d ever meet._

_He has stuck with me, through everything. Never balked when he saw my wounds when I came back. He’s never once yelled at me for panicking. Never given up on me even when I can’t look at him because I don’t want to see the sad look in his eyes. Instead, he’s been there, every single time I’ve needed him._

_My husband is a great man, and until I’m ready to tell_ _my_ _story, I’m going to tell_ _our_ _story._

_-JWH_

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

That night in bed, Sherlock rolled onto his back and turned his head to look at John.

“I’m a great man?” he asked, “the _greatest_ man you’ve ever met?”

“Mmhmm.” John nodded, a short jerk of his head before he turned his head as well, also facing his husband. “You read my blog then. How’d you find it?”

“I had a search set up, for any bit of news regarding you. Your name, of course, was a keyword. I got a notification seconds after you published your blog.”

After opening and closing his mouth a few times he settled on, “Ahh.”

“So, a uniduck?” Sherlock asked an eyebrow arched as John began to grin.

“Yeah, wish I had never thrown that out.”

After a moment of just looking at each other, John rolled over and placed his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock quickly wrapped an arm around John, slowly rubbing his hand up and down John's arm and shoulder, soaking in every point of contact.

“Did you know that touch from someone you love becomes a requirement? That your body more than simply craves it?” John asked as Sherlock’s hand went from Johns clothed shoulder, down his bare arm and back.

“Since meeting you, I started believing that to be true. I need skin to skin contact with you like I need oxygen, John.”

“Then touch me, because I’m having a good day. Let’s take advantage of it while we can.” John sat up enough to gingerly tear his shirt off, then settled down against Sherlock’s already bare torso.

Sherlock whimpered at the contact and turned to bury his face in Johns' hair. It had gotten quite long in his absence and so far John hadn’t been able to let even Sherlock cut it. The moment the scissors were pulled out of their drawer Johns blanket would come up and cover his head while John violently shook his head no. So, Sherlock was now able to bury his nose in the soft swoop of John's hair while his hand slid over John back.

Careful of wounds and lingering bruises, Sherlock began to gently work knots out of John's shoulders. It wasn’t long before John was moaning softly and leaving a puddle of drool on Sherlock’s chest. But Sherlock didn’t care.  All he cared about was John, and that he was being allowed to touch John. The knowledge that John would have other good days, like this, would be enough to get Sherlock through this. As John’s moans turned to snores, Sherlock kissed John's temple and pulled the blanket up over them. Maybe, if they were both very lucky, John wouldn’t have a nightmare tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I want to thank you for how well you've all received this. I'm going to do my best to get a chapter posted once a week (Sunday's probably) until I feel they've healed enough for the next part of the story ;)

Nightmares. They plagued the Watson-Holmes household. Both men had them, and both for the same reason. Tonight, it seemed, was John’s turn. He lay thrashing in the bed sheets, sweat glistened on his exposed skin, soaking into the bedding. The blanket, dubbed “John’s Blanket” was balled up and clutched tightly in John’s hand.   
  
Waking to the sounds of your partner screaming was jarring, to say the least. Sherlock woke, disoriented for a moment, then felt the bed shift and the blankets being tugged on, and was up and out of bed in seconds.    
  
Yawning, and stumbling a bit as he fought sleep, Sherlock maneuvered into the bathroom and got a flannel. As he let the water warm up John’s thrashing grew more violent still. Though it felt like an eternity Sherlock was by Johns side in just a few short minutes.    
  
Waking John was tricky. If you got too close you risked a black eye, scrapes from his fingernails, or a broken nose. Thankfully Sherlock had to date avoided the later. Even more, thankfully he’d discovered that even the simplest of songs played on his violin would wake John.  Though that only seemed to work if he was lucky enough to catch John before the dream turned into a night terror. Then only force and shouting could wake him.    
  
Sherlock has, on his mobile, recorded a handful of songs he’d composed on his violin. Flicking through the audio tracks he picked one, turned the volume up on his phone and hit play. It took a few seconds, but soon John’s thrashing slowed just enough that Sherlock was able to dab away the sweat on his husband's forehead.    
  
“John, sweetheart.... wake up. Wake up for me.”    
  
John didn’t wake, but a pained moan broke free from his lips.    
  
“Come on... wake for me.” Sherlock dabbed the flannel over John's cheek as he tried to coax his husband awake.    
  
John thrashed and let out a choked scream, then his eyes fluttered open. He sucked in a lungful of air then spluttered and coughed as if his lungs had been filled with water.    
  
“Slow breaths, nice and easy...” Sherlock took a step back, giving his husband room to breathe.   
  
“I was...” John’s voice was raspy and it crackled with emotion.    
  
“Just a dream,” Sherlock assured him. John nodded and placed a hand on his heaving chest, as he tried to slow is breathing.    
  
“I.. they,” John began, “water... couldn’t breathe.” He shuddered as he talked and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shake the memory.   
  
“How can I help?” Sherlock whispered, so low that he was almost drowned out by the sound of the violin on his phone.    
  
John focused on the music for a moment, listening to every note and soon found his breathing had slowed.    
  
“Just come back to bed,” John let out a long yawn and rolled over so he was facing Sherlock’s side of the bed. Sherlock reached for his phone to turn the music off. “Could you leave it on?” Sherlock nodded then slipped under the blankets.    
  
As soon as he was settled John surprised him by scooting closer and resting his head on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock turned his head and blinked when he saw John looking up at him.    
  
“I love you, Sherlock, and I cannot thank you enough.” John nestled against Sherlock and let out a soft sigh.    
  
“I love you too, John.” again Sherlock whispered, this time out of fear of shattering the moment.    
  
“I need a favor.” John’s voice was weary and each word was spoken carefully, “I need to go to my therapy session alone tomorrow. There are things I need to say that I’m not ready for you to hear.”   
  
“Sh... should I stay home?” Sherlock had expected this to happen, he knew that there would be a time when John would be ready to talk and that he’d need his privacy, but it still hurt knowing that John wasn’t ready to talk to him yet.    
  
“You can come with me, I just need to go in alone.”   
  
“Okay.” Sherlock swallowed down a bubble of discomfort and placed a hand on John’s shoulder.    
  


“What time is it?” asked John while covering his mouth with the back of his hand, letting out a long yawn.

“Uhh…” Sherlock glanced at his phone then put it back on the nightstand, “just after 2.”

“I…” John sat up and carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed, “don’t think I can sleep.” 

With some effort, John managed to put slippers on, grab his dressing gown, and grabbed his cane. Sherlock watched, propped up on one elbow as John pulled himself out of bed, He could have offered to help, but Sherlock knew he wasn’t in the mood to be babied, and offer of help would seem just as that. 

“Tea?” Pausing at the door John looked back to his husband who was still in bed. Sherlock nodded and reached for his own dressing gown. 

In short order, John was leaning against the worktop cradling a hot mug of tea in both hands. Sherlock glanced at the cane that was propped beside John. John seemed to get around without it at times, but then there were nights like tonight where John seemed unable to walk without it. The pain in John’s leg, while partly real, had to be psychosomatic. There was no denying that John had, in fact, had a broken leg, and it had been taken care of without casts or splints. There would be pain, as the bone was now being allowed to heal correctly. But it had been more than three weeks since John came home. There should have been  _ some _ improvement by now. He made a mental note to text Dr. Thompson at a more reasonable hour, and inform her of his hypothesis.

Instead of voicing this out loud, Sherlock took a sip of his tea and winced as the liquid burned his tongue. Pulling the mug away from his lips with a scowl he placed it on the table.  
  
“I gather you don’t plan on going back to bed?”  
  
“What’s the point? Just to be awoken with another nightmare?” John inhaled sharply through his nose and shifted his weight so less of it was being applied to his bad leg. “No, I think I’ll stay up. Watch telly. Maybe read a book. Go back to sleep if you’d like.”  
  
“Or I could stay up, and we could talk?” Sherlock was careful to leave his voice neutral. He didn’t want to seem to eager, but at the same time, he needed to know. He needed the facts if he only had all the facts, not just the snippets provided to him by John’s journals, or minor conversations, maybe then could he figure out how to fix... no not fix.. help John.   
  
“About?” The word came out as a grunt as John grabbed his cane and over from the relative comfort of the counter and began to slowly limp towards his chair.   
  
“Anything?” Sherlock followed, helped John into his chair and placed the cane within reach before sitting down in his chair across from John.  
  
“Cut the crap, Sherlock. You’re fishing.” Letting out a deep sigh John placed his tea down on the side table and leaned forward in the chair. “Fine, ask me a few questions and I’ll do the best to answer.”  
  
“You sure? I don’t....” Sherlock began but was cut off by a wave of John’s hand.   
  
“I just woke up screaming bloody murder over a nightmare, it isn’t like answering a few questions is going to exactly ruin my night. Fire away.”  
  
“Me, the version of me... that was, er, with you....” Sherlock stumbled over the words, despite having rehearsed this question over and over in his head. “Was... what I’m trying to ask is, could you see me?”  
  
“Yeah, see, hear, interact with. Pretty much everything but touch and smell.” John answered while never quite meeting Sherlock’s gaze.   
  
“Was I there while....” Sherlock scrunched up his facial features, disgusted with himself and his curiosity for needing to know. If he were going to ask, he could a least ask delicately, “while they hurt you?”  
  
Nodding slowly John answered, “sometimes. Other times you’d wait for me. For instance, if it were Moran himself who pulled me out of my cell, you’d come with me, and stand in front of me, giving me something, someone, to look at.”  
  
John’s hands were gripping the arms of his chair, his knuckles had gone white, so Sherlock decided it was time for a different kind of question.   
  
“What was the first meal you wanted to have upon being rescued?”  
  
“My...” John licked his lips and looked surprised, “homemade risotto and garlic bread.”  
  
“I see.” Sherlock’s mind whirred, and while he wanted to ask more, of know more, he knew John had dealt with enough tonight. He decided to reserve John’s willing energy for his therapy session later that day, and end his questioning there.   
  
“Telly?” He whirled himself up out of his chair, voice light and airy, as he whisked the remote off of the nearby bookshelf. “How ‘bout a bond flick.”  
  
“Ye-yeah, that sounds good actually.” John smiled slightly, and got up just long enough for Sherlock to rearrange their chairs to face their small Telly.   
  
“Thank you, sweetheart.” John reached up and grabbed hold of Sherlock’s elbow as he passed by, and gently pulled Sherlock down for a kiss.   
  
“Anything for you, John, anything.” Sherlock dropped a blanket over John and turned the Telly on. If they were both very lucky, John would fall asleep during the movie, and get at least a few more hours of sleep.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

“John.” Sherlock admonished, a glare firmly planted on his face, “I understand that you wish to enforce your willpower over yourself, but you are seeing a doctor.”  
  
“I am a bloody d-ooc,” John broke off with a wheezing cough, his whole body, weak as it was, shook with the effort. He winced and let out a pained moan as his back muscles shifted and pulled on still tender skin.   
  
It had started four days ago. Sherlock had managed to get John out of the house. Something simple, just a trip to the shops. But unfortunately for both of them, John seemed to have picked up a cold, and in his weakened state that meant bad news.   
  
“Yes, but you are in no state to examine yourself. You’re still healing, and now you have a chest infection.” Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets and shook his head at his stubborn husband. John was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in his blanket, staring at the steaming mug of tea that Sherlock had just placed on the coffee table.   
  
“I just have a cold,” there isn’t a single doctor in all of London who would say otherwise.   
  
“Yes, but you are also recovering from some rather intense trauma. Your body is not strong enough to handle ‘Just a cold’,” Sherlock used air quotes and dug his heels in. John might have just a cold, but he needed medical attention, possibly an inhaler or even frequent nebulizer treatments. John would not win this argument, no matter how much it might piss him off   
  
“Fine, but I’m not leaving this flat.” John finally grunted out after a lengthy staring match, then turned away quickly, indicating that he was clearly annoyed even borderline angry.   
  
“Did I ask you to?” Sherlock shot back and immediately winced at the anger in his own voice. He opened his mouth to apologize but stopped short at the hurt look in John’s eyes. This was the first time Sherlock had lost his temper with John, and the hurt and shock in John’s face sent sharp pangs of guilt raising over Sherlock’s chest.   
  
“John....” he began, but John rolled his eyes and grabbed the cup of tea, then purposely focused all his attention on the cup. “Just call, Sherlock.”   
  
Sherlock could tell by John’s body language that the conversation was over and that John wanted nothing to do with him in this current moment so he nodded his head, not that John noticed with this attention so clearly elsewhere, and stepped into the hall to make the phone call.   
  
For the next hour, as they waited for the doctor to arrive, the silence crackled like static. John wouldn’t even look at Sherlock. Not even when he was coughing so hard and consistently that Sherlock rushed to his side and gently rubbed circles between John’s shoulder blades. John pulled back, as if Sherlock’s touch had burned him, and scooted to the far side of the sofa.   
  
Hurt, but not wishing to overreact, as was his way, Sherlock swiftly stood and raised his hands in the air in surrender.  
  
“I don’t know what you want me to do. You’re sick and you need a doctor. But you’re so bloody stubborn you can’t see that. Now you’re mad at me for calling you a doctor. Which makes me feel like you’re mad at me for wanting you well. I understand that, for far too long, you had no control over your body. But now you do, and you’re being a sodding git. Now you have the power to call for a doctor, for someone to mend you, a therapist to help... but you’re choosing to be a downright fool by sheltering yourself in your own personal bubble. A bubble that apparently I’m not even allowed in anymore.” Sherlock drew in a deep breath, momentarily pausing his tirade, “John Watson,” Sherlock put a strong emphasis on leaving out ‘Holmes’ when you want to be my partner again, let me know. Clearly right now all I am is a flatmate.”  
  
With that Sherlock let out a sharp breath through his nose and started walking towards the stairs, intending to head to his lab.   
  
“I’ll inform Mrs. Hudson to show the doctor up. I do suggest you let the doctor examine you. Having pneumonia is the last thing you need right now. “  
  
Without sparing John a parting look Sherlock turned his back on his husband and walked up the stairs. Halfway up he brought a hand to his face to wipe away a single tear. This was beyond anything he knew how to fix. With that Sherlock was gone, leaving a stunned and gaping John sitting on the sofa, the forgotten mug of tea tilted enough in his hands that some liquid was spilling over the side.   
  
In his lab, he fiddled with his phone for a moment before finally unlocking the device. He had to scroll through his contacts, but in short order, he found the name he’d been looking for and pressed dial.   
  
After a few rings, a cheerfully confused voice answered.   
  
“Sherlock!” Mike said, tone indicating he knew this wasn’t a social call.  
  
“Mike... it’s about John.” Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair.   
  
“How’s he doing?”  
  
“He’s walled himself off, Mike. We were doing fine, communicating, he’d even let me touch him... as long as it wasn't in a sexual way. Now he’s sick, chest cold. And he’s just... shut down.”  
  
“Do you know why?” Mike asked in his ever-patient way.   
  
“I called a doctor after he said he didn’t want one. When he was... captured... he had no control over his body. Now I’m stepping in and making choices for him. If he doesn’t see a doctor soon, mike... I’m afraid.”  
  
“You made the right call, Sherlock.”  
  
While welcome, the assurance didn’t fix the situation they were in.   
  
“Is he talking with his therapist?”  
  
“He.. well he wasn’t, but he’s stopped letting me into sessions. I could snoop, or have my brother do it. Classified information for him is like yesterday’s news, but I... I feel like if I didn’t that I’d be stepping over a line, one that shouldn’t be crossed.”  
  
“He’ll let you in when he’s ready.  Until then, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to wait, and situations like this are going to happen. I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you, Sherlock.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks, Mike...” Sherlock hung up and placed his head on the stainless steel table top, and finally let the tears fall.  
  
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been alone in the lap when a knock interrupted his brooding. He ignored it at first, thinking it was John coming to tell him that the doctor had, in fact, said it was just a cold. But after a moment a familiar “yo-hoo” came through the door.   
  
“Sorry, Luv,” she started to say through the door until Sherlock opened it, “but you might want to head downstairs. They’re taking him to hospital. Admitting him, it sounds like.”  
  
“What?” Sherlock’s heart did flip-flops in his chest and he nearly pushed Mrs. Hudson out of the way in his rush to get down the stairs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued - my training at my new job is keeping me from writing. I'll finish this storyline in the next chapter (Plus there's no wifi at work, so I can't write on my ipad)


	5. Chapter 5

 

“I’m still mad at you,” John grumbled as he adjusted the oxygen line, accidentally poking himself in the eye with the pulse monitor. He angrily swatted away Sherlock’s attempt to help and glowered.    
  
“Yes. Well. I’m glad that you’re alive to be mad at me,” Sherlock retorted as he ignored John’s protests and lopped the line up over John’s left ear. “I understand your anger, but my actions were justified. My anger even, was justified.” Sherlock said softly, implying his sort of outburst before he had banished himself to his lab.     
  
“It’s my body... I can do..” John started, but Sherlock shut him up by yelling his retort.   
  
“I lost you once!!! You honestly think I’d be okay with myself if I lost you again because I was allowing you to be a stubborn arse!?” Sherlock roared back, earning their small room in the A&E wing a few scowls from the nurses.    
  
“I... wasn’t, Er, I didn’t...”   
  
John wheezed and stammered, watching as Sherlock stepped back and crossed his arms in a show of defense.    
  
“No. You didn’t think,” Sherlock finished for him. “I wasn’t calling the doctors so I could patch you up just to do something terrible to you! I want you well! I want you on your own two feet again. Because before I dragged you out of our flat for your ‘own good’ and you had a panic attack at Tesco’s, I honestly thought things were going okay. I thought we we figuring things out. But now you’re sick and you’ve shut me out and I’ve sat back and watched long enough.”   
  
The sound of the oxygen kicking on and off and the machines hooked up to John were the only sounds that accompanied Sherlock’s pacing. John watched in silence for a few moments then gently whispered, “I’m sorry. But please... never call me John Watson again. If I’m not your husband then I’m nothing right now. I have so little left of myself to cling to, I need you, and I need us.” John let out a slow sigh, trying not to cough, as he collapsed into the hard hospital pillows.    
  
“Don’t be an arse and I won’t have too.” There was no heat in Sherlock’s voice as he uncrossed his arms and pulled a chair over to John’s bedside.    
  
“I promise that I’ll try not to be an arse to you,” John said while watching Sherlock, returning his smile when it came after a few moments.    
  
“Good. Then I guess I’m not mad enough to withhold this.” Sherlock reached into an albeit hastily packed bag and dug out Johns blanket.    
  
John’s eyes held a gleam of guilt as he reached out and snatched his blanket from his husband and instantly clutched it to his chest.    
  
“I... don’t deserve you. You’ve been so... calm. I mean yeah,” John stopped to cough and clear his throat, “you did yell at me. But you, you’ve been great to me Sherlock.”   
  
“I like to believe that you’d do the same for me.” Sherlock said softly, catching John’s eye and giving him a kind look, one that John in fact did not deserve at this very moment.

“You…” John cleared his throat, backpedaling and trying to change the subject, “thought things were going alright? Before this?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, the kind he used to make when poring over his text books and his mother interrupted him with something as trivial as taking out the trash, then he shrugged. 

“It wasn’t  _ great _ , but we were making it work, you were making improvements. I’m still not keen on the fact that you won't let me into your therapy sessions, or that you won't talk to me about what happened to you. But, it is what it is.”

“What it is, is shit.” John coughed then let his head thump back against the pillows.

“While I don’t disagree, that  _ shit _ might just be a bit easier for you to bear if you were to share the burden with someone who promised to love you, in sickness and in health.” Sherlock arched a brow and crossed his legs, closing his eyes wearily.

“I’ve… told you some?” It came out as a question, and even without opening his eyes Sherlock knew that John’s brow would be furrowed in that,  _ I’m defending myself _ manner he had. 

“Some, yes. Through your journals, and in person. Mainly when you’ve had a nightmare and you need to talk through it. I try not to press the matter, John, and I’ve promised myself never to go above your trust and have my brother pull your therapist’s notes, but we can’t keep on like this. I’ve been on eggshells, in our flat, in our marital home, and not because  _ we’re  _ fighting.” Sherlock opened his eyes just to dig the heels of his hands into them, trying to rub the sleep out.    


John remained silent, and after a stretch Sherlock sighed and with a slap let his palms fall against his thighs. 

“I solve things, John… Fix them, as it were. It’s how my mind works. You, I can’t solve. I can only imagine the horrors that you went through. I refuse to read your military file, despite every ounce of my mind itching and yearning to read it. I want to hear it from you.”

“Read it.” It was hardly a whisper, and John half hoped that Sherlock hadn’t heard it. But he had, he knew it as soon as Sherlock’s back straightened.

“Excuse me?” 

“Read it. Or what the army knows anyways. I’ll be stuck in hospital for a few days while they try and get me well again, bloody lungs, so  you should go home and read the file. Get some sleep beforehand, you look beat, and I know you won't sleep after you’ve read that file. I know what is written in there. Come back tomorrow… I’ll ask the nurse for something to take… xanax or something… and we can try to talk.”

Sherlock didn’t dare ask for permission again, he just nodded. 

“Well played.” 

“Hmm?” John looked over and shot Sherlock a confused look.

“You knew I’d stay the night, and probably not sleep. If I go home, and abide by your wishes, you’ll partly get your way. I’ll catch a few hours of restless sleep, then finally when I can’t stand tossing and turning in an empty bed anymore… I’ll… get my wish.” 

“Something like that.” John nodded, and slowly reached a hand out. Sherlock took it and brushed his fingers over the backs of John’s knuckles. 

“Still mad at me?”

“Annoyed that you were right. I’m a doctor… I knew I wasn’t doing great, but I didn’t know if I could handle being in hospital again.” 

“You’ll be okay if I leave?” Sherlock scooted closer and brought John’s hand up to his lips, kissing each knuckle so carefully you would have thought he was kissing a sharp piece of glass. 

“I think…” John nodded and gave him a tight smile. “They’ll probably let me sleep, and there isn’t much anyone can do until the x-ray comes back. I figure as long as I don’t get moved into ICU I can handle it, even if they do fully admit me.”

“You’ll let me know of any changes?” 

“Of course.” John nodded and this time pulled Sherlock’s hands to his lips, retuning the kisses and making Sherlock smile.

“I’ll smuggle you in some breakfast  tomorrow.”

“You’d better.” John gripped Sherlock’s hand and closed his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ll see that no one is allowed to visit you save for your assigned nurses, doctors and myself.” Sherlock said, mainly for himself, but a relieved sigh came from John’s lips and a look of worry washed clean off his face.

“I love you,” John said, still holding Sherlock’s hand, even as Sherlock stood.

“I love you too, John.” Sherlock bent down and kissed John’s forehead, gathered his coat, then went to see about making sure John would not have any unwelcome guests. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***GRAPHIC CONTENT WARNING***
> 
>  
> 
> Random Tuesday update is random. Wanted to get this up though so I can move on and hopefully have one more chapter up before Christmas. 
> 
> Next few weeks might have a random posting schedule while we deal with crazy holiday stuff. 
> 
> This is unbetaed anf written on my phone. I hope I caught most of it though. (But knowing me I didn’t)

 

John had been right. After only three hours of tossing and turning Sherlock let out a frustrated growl and kicked the blankets off. The bed was too empty without John anyways. The emptiness reminded Sherlock too much of the time where he’d thought John dead. 

 

After pacing back and forth with his violin shoved under his chin and not having played a note, Sherlock tossed the instrument and bow down on the sofa and stalked into the kitchen. He stared, for what must have been ten minutes, at the fridge then reached for the dusty folder that lay on top. 

 

He briefly thought about making tea, or getting something to eat, but when he opened the folder, for the first time, all thoughts of sustenance fled. There, front row, paper clipped to the stack of reports was something he haven’t been expecting. He wasn’t even sure if John knew they were there. Inside were  pictures of John that had been taken when he first arrived at hospital after being rescued. No, not rescued, John had escaped. He’s just been found. Just in time too, judging by the pictures. 

 

One displayed his husband asleep or unconscious on a hospital gurney, naked from the waste up, malnourished and covered in more wounds than Sherlock had first imagined. His visible skin, and certainly more that wasn’t pictured, was almost completely covered in various stages of healing to new bruises. Making it look like John had been used as a punching bag for weeks. 

 

Sherlock blinked and flipped through the next few pictures, pulling them away from the paper clip and spreading them out on the table. When he got to the fourth picture he took one look at it and just barely had time to make it to the toilet to sick up. He knelt on the hard tiles, hugging the porcelain bowl and panting as waves of nausea knotted his stomach up. He found himself thankful of passing on the tea. 

 

After a few moments more he stood up, rinsed his mouth out with a swig of water and toothpaste and washed his face. With shaking legs he willed himself back out to the kitchen and with equally shaking fingers picked up the photo. 

 

Clearly displayed for all to see, was Johns backside.  Gloved hands were pulling apart his cheeks, showcasing a sorely abused anus and surrounding area. Sherlock’s hands itched as his blood boiled over and he was overcome with an overwhelming desire to strangle the man who had done this to his husband. 

 

“I might not be able to fix John,” Sherlock muttered out loud in the empty kitchen, “but I can find this man and make him regret the day he was born. Even if I have to find him myself.”

 

Sherlock finished flipping through the pictures, the knot of nausea in his stomach growing worse with each snapshot; however he managed to not sick up a second time. Most of the injuries in the pictures were of little surprise to him. After all he had helped John bathe the first few weeks after he returned. But to see them fresh, open, bleeding or scabbed over, it made his stomach turn and his jaw clench. 

 

He resisted the urge to text his brother, demanding to know where they stood in their search for the disgraced Colonel Moran. Instead he let his eyes focus on page one of the report. 

 

The first page was mostly personal information. John’s tank, time served, age, description, etc. At the end though, there were two sentences that drew his attention. 

 

“Declared as deceased. Discovered that Captain Watson-Holmes was POW.”

 

He flipped to the second page. It was a categorized list of all of John’s injuries. As he read his mind supplied him with images, matched up from the pictures he’d just seen. Everything was written so clinically that it made the nausea bubble over and turn to rage. 

 

“Broke leg, set and healing.”

 

“Three broken ribs.”

 

“Burns.”

 

Sherlock growled as he read. No where did it say what truly happened. No where did it say that John acquired those woods from a psychotic madman who was hell bent on making every last second of John’s life torturous. 

 

He read for the better part of three hours. Pouring over the reports. Soaking up every word John had said while in hospital. He didn’t say much, never openly talked about his time spent as a prisoner, except when needed. 

 

The first time the hospital staff had tried bathing John, it ended up with John ripping his IV lines out and cowering in a corner of his room. He had finally, after nearly twenty minutes of hyperventilating, let a young female nurse aid him in bathing. 

 

Sherlock noticed, as he dug deeper, that as John’s treatment progressed most of his care team were swapped to females. It made sense once two and two were put together. John had been sorely abused by men for so long. It made Sherlock marvel that John had allowed him, in fact asked him, to help him bathe the first day he was home. 

 

It also made sense that perhaps John would have an easier time talking with his therapist, a woman, without another male in the room. Even if that make was his husband. The last thing he’d want is dredged up experiences, terrible ones at that, while stuck in a room with another man. 

 

Sherlock was still reading when the sun rose. Re-reading anything of value. He was so engrossed in his study that he didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, or the door open until he heard a squeak come from his right. 

 

Mrs. Hudson was there, the tray of tea in her hands visibly shaking. Her eyes were locked on a section of the table where Sherlock had placed the pictures. 

 

“Oh, the poor dear,” she blinked a tear away, fussing a little when Sherlock jumped up to take the tray from her. Hoping the heat wouldn’t damage the pictures much he placed the tray directly over the pictures and simply nodded. 

 

“He went through so much.” She busied herself with pouring the tea, placing a cup in front of Sherlock then sitting down directly across from him. 

 

“I don’t know how to help him.” Sherlock shrugged and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Being around men makes it worse for him, and I can’t change my gender. Well. I can.” Sherlock blinked and waved a hand in the air dismissively. “He won’t open up. I don’t expect him to tell me everything word for word… but how do I help him??”

 

“Just be there for him.” Mrs. Hudson smiled grimly across the table at him, “you’ve done a good job so far. Distract him. As much as it eats you up wanting to know, bring his mind elsewhere. Hold him when he wants it, give him space when he needs it. And,” here Mrs. Hudson paused and gave Sherlock a sharp look, “take care of yourself. I’ve got a quiche in the oven. You can take a piece to John  _ after  _ you’ve eaten.”

 

Too exhausted to argue Sherlock simply nodded.  

 

“Now go take a shower, get some clean clothes, and put all this aside,” she gestured to the table and the file that was now spread over most of it. 

 

***

 

“You mean she wouldn’t give you food for me until you ate?” John half laughed half wheezed while eating the reheated quiche. 

 

“Mmhmm.” Sherlock nodded and took his hands out of his pocket. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down, scooting the chair a fraction closer to John than it had been. 

 

He fiddled with his phone a bit, texting his brother mainly, asking about the status on Moran. If his pratt of a brother hadn’t gotten anywhere yet he was going to wade in. 

 

“So,” John said after a moment, clearing his throat and putting his fork down on the now empty plate. 

 

“So?” Sherlock could feel the tension in the air, could read the wrinkles in John’s forehead like a book. John wanted to know what Sherlock thought of his morning read. 

 

“I ordered some new test tubes today,” Sherlock said as nonchalantly as he could muster. 

 

“Oh?” the look of confusion on John’s face felt like a breath of summer air. All during his shower Sherlock had pictured John’s pained face as they discussed the file. It was a face Sherlock had seen enough of. Enough for a lifetime. Time to change tactics. He knew the facts, now it was time to erase them. Or at least lesson the grip they had on his husband. Distract him, Mrs. Hudson has said. So distract him he would. 

 

“Mm. They’re supposed to be shatterproof. Something to do with the way they’re blown. Though they all claim to be shatterproof.” Sherlock said, stretching a leg out so he could place his mobile in his pocket. 

 

“Nice.” John cocked an eyebrow and regraded Sherlock with a look that clearly stated the elephant in the room. 

 

“Yes, I read it. No we do not need to discuss it. Time for both of us to move on, don’t you think?” Sherlock said, crossing his right leg over his knee and heaving a great breath. 

 

“Er, ya. Actually yeah.” John nodded. Sherlock watched as a tiny bit of tension left John’s shoulders and he allowed himself a inward smile. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Baby steps, and he’d cherish each one of them. 

 

“My X-ray came back. No fluids. Just a nasty cold. My immune system is out of whack, so they’ve suggested I take some supplement to help give that a boost. As long as I promise to take it easy, they’ll let me go home today.”

 

“Good. The flat isn’t the same without you.” Sherlock said, and he meant it. He shared a small smile with John, then stood to clear away the paper plate and plastic fork. 

 

Inside his pocket his mobile buzzed. Mycroft. Hopefully with news. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this I leave you for the holidays. To my UK readers happy Christmas and Boxing Day. (Whateve Boxing Day is)
> 
> Fellow Americans, merry Christmas. :)

“John,” Sherlock muttered over the slide as he locked it into place on the microscope.

 

“Yeah, Sherlock?” John placed his book down on his lap, keeping a finger where he was reading.

 

“Mycroft needs me to go away on a case. Legwork. He hates legwork. I’d be gone a few days. Will you be okay?”

 

“Uhhhh.” Sherlock could hear the slight intake of air that John did when he was thinking. He didn’t even have to look up to know that John’s brows were furrowed. “Should be, ya.”

 

“Sure?”

 

“Mostly. When do you leave?”

 

“Thursday.”

 

Sherlock could hear John’s mind doing the maths, trying to figure out how many days away that was.

 

“Four days…” John muttered then nodded mostly to himself. “We’ll have to go to the shops. Is it dangerous.”

 

“The shops? No. At least they weren’t the last time we were there. Though robbers are quite unpredictable.”

 

“No, they aren’t. Not to you.” John laughed.

 

“True,” Sherlock glanced up and let the corner of his mouth tug up into a smile.

 

“No, you git. The case.”

 

“Perhaps.” Again Sherlock looked up, this time flashing John as mischievous a grin as he could muster.

 

“How long?”

 

“Mycroft estimates three days. Though I plan on doing it in two and a half to prove him wrong.”

 

“Right. John sighed and returned to his book, though before he commencing reading he said, “when you’re done with that we can go to the shops.”

 

We. John has said we. Sherlock simply grunted in acknowledgment while he inwardly choked down the shock.

 

Just over an hour later Sherlock was shrugging into his coat. “You don’t have to come,” he said, looping his scarf around his neck.

 

“And you don’t have to wear that bloody thing. It’s autumn. Not middle of winter.”

 

“Habit.” Sherlock shrugged. It was partly true. His coat and scarf were as much of a disguise as a costume to him. No one seemed to pay attention to a man in a nice coat, “ready?”

 

“As I’ll ever be.” John nodded and screwed a look of determination on his face, though his hands remained balled into fists at his side.

 

“John,” Sherlock gently sighed and stepped close, placing his hands on John’s biceps then slowly lowered them until John’s hands were in his. This was the most intimate they’d been in quite some time and both of them felt a shiver run down their back at contact. “Are you alright?”

 

“I’m… fine. Nervous. But this is the longest I’ve been cooped up inside in my life, well except for the time Harry and I got grounded as kids, but even then I went to school. Sherlock, I need this. Look at me, I’d make a vampire look tanned.”

 

“You are a bit sun-deprived…” Sherlock agreed voice slow and calculating as he read the room, all while still holding John’s hands, “While you’re feeling brave, can… can I kiss you?” Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation. After what felt like an eternity John nodded. Oh, it had been so long. Too long.

 

Releasing one of John's hands and letting it fall limply to his side Sherlock cupped John’s cheek and simply stared at him. He was nervous, but not so nervous that he was blinking rapidly. No, his soldier stood his ground and looked up, leaning slightly into Sherlock’s palm.

 

Sherlock leaned in, gently placing his lips against John’s. Sherlock was so worried that he might moan at their unexpected contact and scare John away that he hadn’t considered the possibility that John might moan. And moan he did. John leaned up and into the kiss, applying more pressure to Sherlock’s hand, and moaned.

 

It wasn’t an extravagant kiss. There was no tongue, no endless smacking of lips or open mouths. It was a simple press of lips against lips. But it was worth all the pirate treasure in the world to Sherlock.

 

“We,” John muttered, following the word with a second, likewise kiss, “should get going. I’m… erm, a bit touch deprived, another kiss like that and I’ll need a change of pants.”

 

“Ahh, sorry.” Sherlock hastily straightened up, but before he removed his hand from John’s face he gently brushed his thumb along John’s jawline. “Any time, that is. Just…” Sherlock stumbled over the words, not sure how to say that all John needed to do was say the word and Sherlock would touch him. Happily. But John, brilliant John, he knew, and he nodded.

 

“Kiss me again when we get back?” John asked timidly.

 

Sherlock simply licked his lips and nodded. Of course, he could kiss John. Of course.

 

John surprised Sherlock again once they were outside by casually taking Sherlock’s hand in his. Sherlock smiled, happily surprised by today’s turn of events. They walked slowly, both to enjoy their time together, and to accommodate John’s somewhat weaker body. While the wounds were gone, and all that remained where scars, John had yet to partake in any kind of exercise, and his muscles were weak.

 

They were almost to the shop, rounding a corner and facing a busy street full of both cars and pedestrians when John stopped short and gripped Sherlock’s hand so tightly it hurt. Sherlock snapped to attention and followed John’s gaze. He spotted two men sitting at a table outside a cafe. One was wearing a dark blue suit with aviator glasses blocking the afternoon sun. The other wore a black leather jacket and had longish hair, down to his ears, his profile clearly visible. Turning to ask John what the matter was he felt bile rise in his throat when he saw the panic in John’s eyes.

 

First thing first, he needed to shield John from whatever threat was causing him to panic. He stepped in front of John, breaking his line of sight, and cupped John’s head in his hands, tilting his head up, forcing him to look at him.

 

“Moran?” Sherlock asked, fighting the urge to leave John and tackle the bastard to the pavement.

 

“I…” John blinked and licked his lips, words failing so he simply nodded. “Can we try a different shop?” He asked lamely and let out a relieved sigh when Sherlock nodded and hailed a nearby taxi.

 

Sherlock did his best not to draw attention to themselves as he hustled John into the cab, all while trying to shield John, get a glimpse of the arsehole, see if they’d been spotted, and text his brother.

 

It looks like his “case” would not be taking him out of the country after all. Not when the bastard was here. Right down the road from their flat. Coincidence? Most certainly not.

 

“Tescos,” he told the driver, willing his voice to remain calm.  John was panicking enough for the both of them right now. “The one on Kennington.”

 

“There are four closer.” the driver turned around and shrugged, oblivious to the turmoil of emotion going on in his backseat.

 

“And you’ll earn a higher fare by taking us to the one I requested.” Sherlock snapped, then shut the driver out of his thoughts. John. John needed him.

He turned and found John taking deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth.

 

“Are you alright?” Not even bothering to buckle Sherlock pivoted so he took up as much of John’s field of vision as he could. John snapped his eyes open and nodded slowly.

 

“Considering…” John’s voice was thick like he’d just swallowed his tongue.

 

“Do you still want to go? We could go home, order out.” Sherlock asked, though he desperately hoped John would want to go. He needed Mycroft to secure the flat and the surrounding area.

 

“I want to go.” John looked like he was in a trance but nodded slowly as if he weren’t sure if that was exactly what he wanted, but he didn’t change his mind. Sherlock’s phone buzzed, startling John. He glanced down at it and sighed.

 

“Mycroft?” He nodded to the incoming call from a blocked number.

 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock agreed, swiping the answer button and jamming the device to his ear.

 

The conversation was short and to the point. Sherlock quickly explained where they were, what they had seen and a list of local shops that possibly had security cameras.  Not wishing to alarm John by the talk of securing the flat, Sherlock used the code word he and his brother had agreed upon when John first came back.

 

“Oh… and Mycroft?”

 

“Mm?” Came the bored voice.

 

“Take care.”

 

“Of course,” replied Mycroft, clearly understanding. “Give me an hour,” and the line went dead.

 

“Right.” Sherlock sighed, pocketing his phone. “I’ll be delaying my trip for a while. Better to be home with you when… he’s around.”

 

“Thank you.” Was all John said, but he leaned his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and let out a shaky breath. Every part of him wanted to go home, lock the doors, close the blinds, and curl into bed. But today was about being brave. And while he wasn’t brave enough to walk up to Moran and slug him one right in the face, he was brave enough to go to the store. Especially a store that was as far away from that corner in London.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems like if we are to get any more updates, they’ll be written on my phone. This has passed “Grammarly” in ways of typos. I don’t really have a beta. Soooooo it will be what it will be. Don’t kill me for my shitty ass iPhone 6 with a battery life of ten minutes and an auto correct that changes CORRECT words to something entirely different. 
> 
> I’m doing the best I can’t do while working 40 hours a week, commuting 10 hours a week for work, keeping up with a social life. And somehow trying to sleep. 
> 
> Phone updated are in the future.

 

Despite their near run-in, John made it through a full shopping trip without event. It wasn’t until they were in line to cash out did he lean his weight against Sherlock and let out a weary breath. Sherlock looked up from his phone; where he’d been texting his brother, and put an arm around John.

 

“Almost, luv. Then we can go home.”

 

“Home is going to stink of Mycroft. Isn’t it.” John sighed and tossed a chocolate bar from an end of register display onto the belt.

 

“Possibly. But he’s promised me our flat is secure. Nothing can harm us there.” Sherlock said, leaving out the bit where he’d told his brother to install cameras at any possible point of entrance. John needed the illusion of privacy more than he needed to know they were being monitored by government minions in a stuffy office.

 

“Did….” he started to ask, but stopped when Sherlock briefly shook his head.

 

“Gone. He’s working with local businesses to pull security camera footage. Some of the privately owned ones are requiring a bit of persuasion. He expects to see results by the time we get home. He’s even hired a car to make sure we get there safely.”

 

“Nice that he’s being a proper big brother.”

 

“Mm.” Sherlock nodded then smiled at John when they were finally at the register.

 

They paid, gathered their bags, and stuffed them into the boot of the black sedan. John let out a shaky sigh as he sat in the safety of the car and grabbed Sherlock’s hand as soon as Sherlock was seated next to him.  

 

“I wasn’t brave enough,” John whispered into the silence, just barely audible over the ambient sound of rubber on pavement.

 

“What do you mean?” Sherlock stroked his thumb over the back of John’s hand and looked at him incredulously.

 

“I should have gone up to him, punched him in the nose and dragged him to your brother by his ear.” John let out a defeated grunt as he slumped against Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

“John, the very fact that you didn’t break down right then and there is simply amazing to me. You fascinate me. Anyone else would have been crippled at the sight of their abuser. No, you _were_ brave enough. If he is in London, Mycroft _will_ find him. That much I know.”

 

****

 

“Sherlock,” John said uncertainty, coming up behind Sherlock while he was putting the last of the groceries in the fridge and wrapping his arms around Sherlock, “take me to bed.”

 

Sherlock froze and felt a shiver rub down his spine. “Are you tired?” He asked, trying to play dumb and not sound as hopeful as he felt.

 

“No, you berk. I want you to take me to bed, where we’ll both get naked and touch each other. It’s been so long, since things have been normal between the two of us.”

 

Sherlock turned around, closing the fridge with his hip and placed his hands on John’s hips.

 

“Are you sure?” _Are you ready?_ Is what Sherlock was really trying to say, and John seemed to understand. John gave him a tight smile and nodded.

 

“As sure as I can be.” _Not really, but when_ _will_ _I be for a normal sex life again._

 

Sherlock took John’s right hand in his left and lead him down the hall into their bedroom. The air crackled, not with tension, but with understanding. John screwed on a determined look and let go of Sherlock’s hand to take off his belt. There was a soft hiss of leather against jeans then a thunk as the buckled made contact with the wooden floor.

 

“Watch me,” he whispered softly as he undid his zip. Sherlock watched with anticipation. He’d seen John naked while helping him bathe, but this was different. John slowly lowered his jeans, revealing strikingly red pants. Sherlock grinned.

 

“Red pants.”

 

“Mmhmm,” John returned the grin then kicked out of his jeans. “I imagine your love for them hasn’t faded any.”

 

“Oh, god no.” Sherlock licked his lips and shook his head so hard he made his curls bounce.

 

“Well?” John said expectantly, slightly muffled by the sound of his button up, only half unbuttoned, being pulled over his head. “Aren’t you going to undress too? I feel a might bit silly in nothing but my pants.”

 

“You are a wonder, John Watson-Holmes. Breathtakingly surprising, and yes, I do plan on undressing. I just… it’s been a while,” Sherlock shrugged apologetically and let his eyes drag over John from top to bottom a few times. When he suspected John was beginning to feel uncomfortable he cleared his throat and made short work out of undressing.

 

Some of the “heat of the moment” was lost as they got onto the bed. Neither sure how to position themselves, until John cleared his throat and crawled over Sherlock. Sherlock was hard as a rock, and his cockstand pressed into John’s thigh. John was mostly flaccid, he screwed his face up and looked down at it.  

 

“I… I could help.” Sherlock softly said and offered John a smile. John nodded and sat up, resting his bum on the tops of Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock twisted, letting out a grunt of exertion until his fingertip just barely made inside the side table. He fished around and pulled out the bottle of lube and caught John’s eye.

 

“Tell me to stop and I will stop. No hurt feelings, no expectations, simply I will stop.”

 

“Thank you.” John nodded, keeping his eyes open, watching as Sherlock warmed a generous amount of lube in his palm before reaching for John’s cock.

 

Both John and Sherlock let out a moan when Sherlock’s hand wrapped around, albeit soft, girth. John’s body gave a little shudder and let out a gasping, “Sherlock!”

 

“Alright?” Sherlock asked, making sure that _was_ a sound of pleasure and not of panic. John nodded enthusiastically and rocked his hips in shallow motions, right into the waiting fist of his husband. It took John less than two minutes before he was fully hard, yet he was already panting and twitching on Sherlock’s lap.

 

“Come here,” Sherlock said, letting go of John and wiping the excess lube onto his own erection. He guided John until he was on all fours over him, their hips pressed firmly together, “now rock back and forth. I’ll let you set the pace.” Sherlock kissed the side of John’s forehead and put an encouraging hand on his left bicep.

 

“I think,” John rasped, breaths coming in uneven pants, “it won’t take me…. ahh… long. I think.”

 

John’s movements were choppy, uncoordinated and less than graceful. At one point Sherlock had to hold of his good leg to steady him when his rutting sent him off balance. However, none of that lessened the sex appeal. Sherlock watched, mesmerized as John rutted against him. He sighed and moaned as their cocks rubbed together, letting his mouth hang open in amazement as his husband took pleasure from the friction between their bodies.

 

“Come for me, husband,” Sherlock whispered, canting his hips, doing his best to match John’s rhythm. “Come you gorgeous man.” John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s chest and let out a moan, Sherlock peppered the crown of his head with kisses while holding him steady.

 

It only took John a few more thrusts before he was groaning and shaking from head to foot. Warm come splashed over Sherlock’s stomach as John’s movements slowed. Sherlock was close, so close, and seeing his husband allow himself to open up like this was all he needed. He stroked John’s back, soothing him through the aftershocks and soon his release joined his husbands.

 

He guided a still shaking John to lay on his side and grabbed the nearest arrival of clothing, a sock, and cleaned himself off. Tossing the sock, somewhere, on the floor he rolled over and placed a hand on John’s face.

 

“Alright?”

 

“Mmm.” John half opened his eyes and smiled at Sherlock; and for a moment, it reminded Sherlock of the past where they’d just lay arm in arm in their post-coital haze. Sherlock smiled and brushed a bit of hair behind John’s ear.

 

“Good.” Sherlock kisses John’s nose, earning him a soft giggle and said, “sleep, you’ve had an eventful day. I’ll wake you when supper is ready.”

 

“You’re going to cook?” John asked sleepily, a look of amusement softening the lines on his face.

 

“Or attempt to. Might not be edible.” Sherlock laughed and began to reluctantly extract himself from the bed, but John held him tight and shook his head.

 

“Stay. Just for a little while. Then you can go cook me dinner. Spaghetti, I think. Hard to mess that up.” John nuzzled down against Sherlock’s chest and let out a happy sigh.

 

“Yes, your highness,” Sherlock laughed. He held John until his slow rhythmic breathing told him he was asleep, memorized the surprisingly calm look on his face, then pulled himself out of bed.

 

Dinner could wait. Takeaway from a local Italian restaurant would do. John might not even notice the lack of dishes. He had an arsehole to find, and it would require eyes all over the city. And he knew just how to do that.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine this chapter happening shortly after the chapter in “Dear John” where Sherlock and John have actual sex. 
> 
> This is the two of them, dealing with shit and realizing that it can only be dealt with by being united. And John wants normal again. Which is a huge step forward. He’s done cowering, skipped over rage, and wants normal. I’m so proud of him. 
> 
> Literally they write themselves. 
> 
> Also this will be the last update of the year. 
> 
> Happy New Years everyone! Xoxo


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I love this chapter. But I think I feel that way because it's almost time to move into part there if this story. And that means more work lol

The day after Moran’s sighting, Mycroft visited 221b. While his visit was unannounced it was not unexpected. John looked up from his laptop, where he was typing up his latest blog entry. A rather racy entry, where he was talking about the time Sherlock had visited him in Afghanistan and they’d gone on a picnic, not exactly leaving out the sex that followed. (Or the gunfire.) Sherlock stopped pacing, and they both looked at Mycroft. John knew from the scowled on Sherlock’s face that Moran had not been found yet. 

  
“I don’t come completely empty-handed. However, I highly doubt you’ll like the news I have for you.” Mycroft handed Sherlock a DVD. Sherlock walked over to John, handed him the DVD and stood behind him as John popped it into the cd tray.   
  
Sherlock placed a hand on John’s shoulder as his husband drew in a heavy breath and hit play when prompted.   
  
The video was grainy, low quality CCTV, but there was no doubt that they were looking at Sebastian Moran. He was sitting, as John and Sherlock saw, at a cafe with another man. In every appearance, they looked like two men catching up. Except Moran was staring straight at the camera. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw John’s jaw clench.   
  
The video continued, more footage of Moran drinking coffee while about 80% of the time staring at the camera.   
  
“Right here is when you walk around the corner.” Mycroft’s voice startled John but he settled back in his chair and watched.   
  
For the briefest of moments, Moran looked in the direction of where John and Sherlock had been. Surprise flickered over his face when he turned back to the camera and winked. In the amount of time it took for John and Sherlock to get a cab, Moran too disappeared.   
  
“He walked down the street exactly half a block, entered a shop and disappeared through a back alley.”

  
“Bastard didn’t know I was alive,” John whispered, reaching a hand up to place on top of Sherlock’s. “You saw that look.”  
  
“I did.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with hatred and he looked to his brother, “What are you doing to prevent him from leaving the city?”  
  
“You know my methods.”   
  
Sherlock nodded and turned back to the computer. “There are two likely paths he’ll take.”  
  
“Come after you and John, or run.” Mycroft rolled his eyes as if that hadn’t been worth saying.

 

"Wait, come after me?" John twisted violently in his chair, turning to look up at Sherlock, eyes wide with fear.  
  
"We are perfectly safe here, John." Sherlock pulled John up into a standing potion and,  despite his brother standing not two feet from them, pulled John into a comforting embrace. "I've permitted my brother to install security cameras at every point of entry to this building. Our privacy is secure, however, even the fire escape out our bedroom window has a camera. If anyone tries to enter, even us, it sends an alarm to a team the Mycroft has set up personally. If it is not us or Mrs. Hudson, we will get a text. If we don't reply within a minute, approving the visitor, the police, we and Mycroft will be alerted."  
  
"But, what if we go out?" John asked, he'd gotten a taste of fresh air, the first in a long time, and despite the run-in, enjoyed getting out.   
  
"Then you will be shadowed by four of my personal." Mycroft waded in, shifting his weight from one foot to another, "Until this man is caught, you go nowhere alone. Either of you."  
  
Both John and Sherlock nodded their agreement, then after exchanging pleasantries, Mycroft left.   
  
"What now?" John asked, burying his head into Sherlock's chest.   
  
"We wait," Sherlock replied, resting his chin on the top of John's head. "I too, have people looking for him."  
  
"You do?" without breaking the embrace, John looked up.   
  
"Mmm. I've set up a network of storts. Utilizing the homeless, promising them money if they provide me with useful information. Moran is smart, smart enough to know to avoid CCTV, main roads or trains out of London. However, who would think that the old man begging for change on a random street corner would actually be watching out for you?"

  
  


"Brilliant."

"I thought so." Sherlock smiled at John's complement then sighed. "I also did something you might either be proud of or mad at."

 

"Oh?"  
  
"I told my network, that if they found him, to contact my brother." Sherlock made a pained look, "I don't trust myself not to kill him. Then where would that leave you? Alone? Trying to bail me out of prison? No, it's better this way."  
  
"I agree." John nodded into Sherlock's chest.   
  
They remained arm in arm for a few minutes more, then John gently pulled away and went to the window. "He's a trained sniper. What's stopping him from going across the street, and waiting for a moment like this?"  
  
"Nothing." Sherlock's voice was grave, and John could sense the worry.

"Then," John said, closing the shade, "I say we avoid the windows. Despite how enjoyable the sun is."   
  
"It won't be like this forever," Sherlock said, closing the shade to the other window.   
  
"I hope not, Sherlock... I really hope not."  
  
_**_

They lived in relative seclusion for a week. Then John couldn't take it anymore. He tossed down the book he was currently trying to read (Trying being the operative word there.) and slapped his palms against his legs.  
  
"We have to do something! I don't care what it is, but we're at each other's throats."   
  
Sherlock stopped tuning his violin and gave his husband a look.  
  
"We've been bickering for two days. I'm sick of it. Call up that detective friend of yours. Ask if we can help with something. Won't we be safe surrounded by police?"

"That's actually not a bad idea, John." Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, fiddling with the rosin then grinned. "Freelancing! I could be a consultant for the Police. I'm smart enough. I'm sure they're always in over their head."  
  
"Oh, how humble of you. But yes, anything, god anything."   
  
Three hours later they were inside NSY, sitting at a desk with a very confused Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade staring at Sherlock.   
  
"So, you'll solve my cases, for me," D. I. Lestrade pointed at himself, "and I'll take the credit?"   
  
"Credit is worthless to me, it's the work I want."

"And I'll have to pay you?" Lestrade wrinkled his nose at this.

"No, I don't want your money." Sherlock waved a hand in the air and rolled his eyes.   
  
"So you'll do this, for free, out of what? The goodness of your heart?"  
  
"No, he's doing it so his husband doesn't murder him," John said, laughing at the bad placement for such a joke. "He's brilliant, its summer, he's got weeks yet before Uni starts back up... and he's going stir crazy. Give him something, a cold case, he'll prove to you how useful he is."

"Brilliant, John!" Sherlock grinned at his husband, then looked, with all seriousness, at the D. I. "He was kidding, about the murder bit. We've just gone a little stir crazy." Sherlock then, devoid of details, explained their situation. He simply mentioned that John had been a POW, escaped, and now his captor was somewhere, possibly in the same city. That they'd basically put themselves under house arrest, until now. Lestrade listened, offered his apologies and thanks for service, but John waved it off.  
  
"I'm not looking for praise or pity. What happened happened." John hefted a sigh then looked at the D.I. "But thanks."   
  
"Any time," Lestrade reached his hand across the desk, offering it to John to shake, "Greg, and if you need a friend," he looked from one man to the other, "I'm free for a pint."

After nearly an hour and a half of John watching his husband pour over cold cases, spreading the contents of files and evidence boxes out over a rickety table, (with Lestrade hovering to ensure their content's safety) Sherlock had proven his worth. He'd solved two murders, one string of petty thefts, and informed Lestrade on where to find a runaway. John and Lestrade had chatted while Sherlock worked, and it turned out that he and the officer had quite a bit in common.   
  
After exchanging contact information, John promised to call him for that pint in the near future and pulled his unwilling to leave husband out of the office and into the lift.  
  
Sherlock, while annoying to be leaving, was glowing. He was talking a mile a minute, hands moving animatedly, and all but pacing the small lift. John leaned against the wall in the corner, watching both the floors tick buy and his husband, and smiled. Sherlock came to a dead stop and looked at John quizzically.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing, can't I just be happy?" John winked and motioned that Sherlock should continue with his happy lecture on blood spatter. As they reached the ground floor, John found himself actually happy, and knew that for once, Sherlock was too.  
  
If they could make it past this without going back to both sullenly sulking and tiptoeing around each other's feelings... they might just be okay. Perhaps he'd write a letter, one last letter to his husband, and say the things he wanted to say, but never found the words for. It was time to write a "Dear John" on their past, time to say goodbye and move forward. 

John smiled and exited the lift, feeling like a better man. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the end of this story line. Please subscribe to the SERIES so you're updated when part 3 gets posted. 
> 
> Please give me a little time before part 3 is posted. Part 3 will be more in-depth and require more time. 
> 
> <3

 

Life with a baby was interesting, to say the least. John hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in the week Charlotte had been with them. But John wouldn't have it any other way. Life with a baby changed everything. It caused him to focus on the now and the future. She was everything he needed. Well, Charlotte and Sherlock, of course.  
  
He stood upstairs, twilight settling in around him. They'd converted Sherlock's lab into a nursery, and moved all the dangerous equipment and (most of) the experiments and body parts, (again, most of) down into 221C, which Mrs. Hudson happily rented out to them. (For a more than fair price.)

 

He watched as the newborn slept snugly in her soft yellow crib. A green and pink striped blanket covered her, and just beside her was a stuffed animal. It was a bee that was nearly as big as she was. John thought fondly of his husband's love for bees, it being the reason for his bee tattoo. He was so lost in thought, thinking of teasing Sherlock about the tattoo, the first time Sherlock saw it, and just how much he loved the silly bug when arms wrapped around him.  
  
Not too long ago that would have caused John to jump. To panic. But that was before. Now John settled in against Sherlock's body and sighed.  
  
"I think Charlotte fits," John whispered softly.  
  
"Mmm." Sherlock murdered as he nuzzled his head between John's neck and shoulder, gazing down fondly at the tiny sleeping bundle.

It went unspoken that they both wanted to keep her. They just knew. After all, hadn't they "jumped the gun" and rented out the basement flat? John thought it went unspoken because there was a chance that soon she'd be taken from them, and placed with a blood relative. He tried not to think about that, instead, he focused on this one moment. The three of them, peaceful, despite all odds.  
  
"We should sleep," John craned his neck and kissed Sherlock on the cheek, "while we can," he broke away, reluctantly, from Sherlock's embrace and the two of them moved out into the hall.  
  
"You sleep. It's too early for me. Plus Lestrade sent over a case to look at." Sherlock kept his voice low even once they were moving down the stairs.  
  
"Yeah, I will." John nodded and pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace in once they'd reached the 2nd floor before they went their separate ways. Sherlock smiled softly into John's hair and held him close. He loved this, loved that John was now reaching out for physical contact. He'd come so far in the year he'd been back, and at times it was almost as if nothing had happened. Yes, there were times, especially when John caught a glimpse of himself in front of their full-length mirror and saw his scars when John would be in a dark mood. But they never lasted long.

Sherlock watched as John headed towards the bedroom via the kitchen door, looked into the lounge where the case file lay on the desk, then looked back in the direction John was headed. He made a snap decision and followed John into the bedroom. He entered just as John was worming is way out of his jumper, John looked over the neck of the jumper and looked quizzically at Sherlock.  
  
"Wha-?" he started, but Sherlock interrupted him by stepping close, inches apart, and gently pulled the sweater off of John. The t-shirt came next, Sherlock also helping his husband out of it, then he herded John to the edge of the bed.  
  
"Lay on your front," Sherlock said, fingers working on John's zip. Trousers came off, pants stayed on, and one very confused John laid on his front. "It's high time you know that you're gorgeous," Sherlock said as he looked to make sure the baby monitor was on.

"Sherlock?" John looked sideways, questioningly at his husband as Sherlock got on all fours above him. He stiffened initially when Sherlock's lips touched his back, right where he had a scar from a whip; but as Sherlock's lips kept moving, and his husband murmered sweet nothings to him, he relaxed.

  
In the end, John was crying. With one simple act, Sherlock had quelled his fears. He knew Sherlock still loved him, he'd said as much and certainly shown it. But to feel sexy again... that was something so overwhelmingly good and warm that John couldn't help it.  
  
"If.. if I can stop blubbering," John started, wiping the back of his hand across his nose, "Would you consider having sex with me?"  
  
"Consider?" Sherlock's voice washed over him as he purred and kissed the back of John's neck, "You never have to ask that, John. I am yours and will for as long as I'm alive."  
  
"Yeah, me too." John nodded, and a fresh round of tears burst from his eyes as he realized he meant it. He was willing, with Sherlock. Any time. He was done being afraid. Sherlock saw the look on John's face and grinned like a young child on Christmas day.

"Well, while the baby is sleeping..." Sherlock moved off the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt, "Do you mind missing out on a little more sleep?"

"Oh god. Not at all." John grinned, shimmied out of his pants and threw them at Sherlock. Sherlock caught them with a laugh, and as his lips wrapped around the tip of John's cock, all thoughts of the cold case waiting for him we're forgotten. All that mattered in this single moment, was John.

The sex so far, while slow in pace, was incredible. Sherlock lay back as John moved inside him. He wrapped his legs around John's torso and pulled him closer, forcing John deeper inside him. They both moaned.

“Oh? Is that how you want it?” A glint of something strong and commanding shown in John's eyes and he grabbed hold of Sherlock's legs and pulled them flat to his chest.

“Yes. Please!” Sherlock all but begged as John went impossibly deep. He moved faster, growing more confident with each thrust. He was gorgeous, he was his old self. Strong, confident, and more than a little cheeky.

Without so much as a peep, John pulled out and flipped Sherlock over so he was on his stomach. Then he was back inside, hips pivoting as he took his pleasure. Sherlock bit down on the pillow, not wishing to wake either their landlady or the baby while John threw caution to the wind and groaned above him.

“I'm coming!”

Sherlock knew before John even said anything. John's breathing has become irregular, drops of sweat were falling on to his back from, most likely, John's forehead. Then John let out a cry that almost sounded like he was in pain. But then he laughed, as he collapsed on top of Sherlock. His body twitching as the shockwaves of pleasure rolled over him like a summer storm.

“I'll…” John sighed, voice slightly muffled as his face was pressed against Sherlock's back, “your turn, as soon as I can move.”

“Actually,’ Sherlock grinned into the pillow, “you getting off was all I needed. Though I think we'll need to change the bedding before we sleep.”

“Yeah, this is going to be messy…” John slowly pulled his rapidly softening dick out of Sherlock and grinned as his release leaked out of Sherlock's body. “Very messy, it seems.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock let out a contented hum and rolled over, not caring about the mess he'd made or the wet spot he was now laying in. “Come here,” he held his arms out and pull a willing John into an embrace. “We can clean up later, right now, let me bask. **”**

John grinned and willingly fell into Sherlock's arms. He snuggled in close, and soon both men asleep. Cold cases momentarily forgotten.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Sooo I had a eureka moment. this fic will have this plus one more chapter. I know what I want to do for part three. And I'm so excited abut it. However where the story is going... The Moran issue need to be wrapped up here. 
> 
> SO that said. This chapter timeline wise is the SAME DAY as the last chapter of Dear John. 
> 
> OMG. I'm so excited.

“Where?” John whispered hoarsely, partly because of the sleeping baby in his arms, but mostly because he couldn’t get his voice to work.

 

“My brother has him.” Sherlock’s fingers tingled as he held the phone so John could read the screen. His heightened emotions seemed to make him aware of every ounce of blood careening out of his pounding heart.  

 

John read the text, holding Charlotte close to his chest, his hand gently cupped around her fragile head.

 

 _Moran was apprehended last night at 2300. Tell your husband he may_ **_see_ ** _him tomorrow. Call me for details. -MH_

 

As if sensing her father’s spiking anxiety Charlotte woke up and began fussing. John shushed her and gently began rocking her while still staring at the screen. He stared until the screen timed out and went black.

 

“Soo…” he licked his lips and brought his gaze up to me Sherlock’s. “He said ‘see’. Does that mean he’s alive? Or…” trailing off he kissed Charlotte’s fuzzy head and breathed in slowly through his nose.

 

“I don’t know… you can find out tomorrow, if you want.” Slipping his phone into his pocket Sherlock stood, one hand his his pocket still holding the phone, and watched, reading his husbands facial expressions. He was a mix of emotions, but most prominent was determination.

 

“No.” John shook his head and slowly began walking Charlotte up the stairs to her room. Sherlock followed with a confused expression. He’d expected John to react, well not like this. This was as unexpected a reaction as the news was.

 

“ _We_ will find out tomorrow. Whatever happens, we do it together, as a family.”

  


o0o0o0o0o0o

  


That night, two exhausted men plopped down on the sofa and let out a almost stereo sigh. Charlotte had been fussy all afternoon, clearly sensing the tension. She’d fought sleep since news of Moran had reached them,  and had only fallen asleep for the night when she’d cried herself to the same level of exhaustion her parents felt.   
  
The phone call with Mycroft had been uninformative. Mycroft had simply stated that his car would be by around 8 in the morning, and that John should be prepared. However he wouldn’t say _what_ for.

 

“I should run downstairs, before I get too comfortable, and ask Mrs. Hudson if she can watch Charlotte for us tomorrow…” Sherlock sighed and leaned forward, starting to move off the sofa when John put a hand on his leg.

 

“No.” John said quietly but there was a hard edge to his voice. “Together. If he is alive, I want him to see that he can’t hurt us anymore.”

 

Sherlock pivoted, looking over at John while still perched at the edge of the sofa. Again, this was _very_ unexpected. John was acting as if he weren't afraid, and, after looking at him for a moment Sherlock saw that he actually wasn’t.

 

“Are you certain?”

 

When John nodded firmly, Sherlock settled back against the cushions and motioned for John to come cuddle. John did so without hesitating. They sat like that, John resting his head on Sherlock’s chest while Sherlock dragged a long arm around Johns shoulders.

 

John inhaled slowly, trying to grasp hold of the thoughts dancing through his mind. They had both hoped, for so long, that this would come to fruition. That Moran would be caught. That some, no matter how small, justice would be served. With one simple text, it had happened. John realized that he was relieved, but not because he finally felt safe. No, Sherlock had saved him months ago. No, he was relieved because this meant his family, himself,  Sherlock and Charlotte, could go for walks in the park. As a family, without Mycroft’s minions shadowing them. Without looking over their shoulders or wondering if they were being stared at because they were 2 men and a baby, or if it were for a far more sinister reason. After about ten minutes he tilted his head up so he could just see the tip of Sherlock’s chin.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Me?” Sherlock sounded more than a little surprised.

 

“No, I’m clearly talking to the ceiling.”

 

This earned a dry chuckle from Sherlock, who after a moment, replied, “I’m… Yes, I think. But I’m not sure.”

 

“Yeah, same here.” John nodded and moved his head back to a comfortable position.

 

“After all he did to you, I’m not sure I’ll be able to look him in his eyes without wanting to murder him slowly… with a rusty spoon.”

 

“There’s a picture,” John laughed then sat up, moving his neck side to side, working out the kinks their cuddling had caused. “Again, if he is alive, I want to look him in the eyes and torment him by letting him know how well I’m doing. I want him to know he didn’t break me, he didn’t end us, that we have a family now.” John scrubbed a hand through his hair, then down his face, over the wrinkles on his forehead caused by the anger he was holding back. His voice grew dark, low, almost a snarl, “What I _really_ want, is to punch him, right in that smug face, call him a deserter, a bastard, hurt him like he hurt me… but…” he sighed and rubbed a tear from his eye, “that would make me no better than him.”   
  
“You are a better man than he,” Sherlock cut in gently, and John nodded.

 

“Which is why I’ll let your brother have his way with him. Again, all granted he’s alive.”

 

Sherlock offered John a small, sad, but somehow reassuring smile then stood. He held out his hand, helped his husband up off the sofa and silently lead John towards their bedroom. And while the residence of 221B didn’t sleep well that night, by half 1 all three were cocooned safely in the master bedroom, finding comfort in their small family.    
  
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

The car came by exactly at 8. John briefly wondered where Mycroft hid them that they could avoid traffic and arrive to their location at perfectly precise moments. As they’d been using Mycroft for a personal taxi service since Moran was first spotted, it was no surprise that Charlotte’s carseat was already strapped in the back. Not really wishing to separate for such a journey, both men squeezed in the backseat. Charlotte on the right, behind the driver, John in the middle, and Sherlock on the left. The driver, per Sherlock’s previous instructions didn’t shift out of park until all three were buckled.

 

The car took them to St. Barts. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were headed to the morgue. John felt conflicting parts of his brain both feeling relieved, and a bit let down. However, before he was able to figure out which emotion was the superior one, Hugh, Sherlock and John’s main bodyguard, took them left where they should have gone right for the morgue. John and Sherlock shared a look. Sherlock, who had Charlotte in his arms, shrugged a bit clumsily. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to holding a baby, John found it endearing.

 

They were lead into a private wing, one that John hadn’t even been to when he was a resident doctor. Then Mycroft took over the tour, greeting each of them with a look that clearly said, _“A baby? Now? Here?”_ Sherlock shot him back a look that said clearly enough to go fuck off, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

 

At the end of the wing, was a single door. Mycroft stopped at it, took a key out of his pocket, unlocked it and pushed it open with his toe. Then stepped back to let John and Sherlock inside first.

 

There, in a hospital bed, hooked to a breathing tube, feeding tube, IV’s and covered in casts. Honestly looking like he’d walked in front of a double decker bus roughly five times, then once more for good measure, was Moran.

 

“What… what happened to him?”  John turned to look at Mycroft who instantly began inspecting his fingernails.

 

“He, took an unfortunate tumble out of a 3rd story window.”

 

“Exactly how many times?” Sherlock asked, a quirk of a smile on his lips.

 

“A few, honestly I lost track.” Mycroft feigned a yawn and waved to the room. “He’ll remain here, then go to trail. John you will not have to testify, unless you wish. We have more than enough on him to put him away.”

 

“But if I do?”

 

“Then that simply cements our case that much more.” Mycroft shrugged, and made a face at Charlotte who was looking at him.

 

“Oi, don’t make faces at her!” John started to complain but it lost all heat when he saw her face break into a smile. He told himself it was just gas, that she was too young (which medically was true) but it warmed his heart to think that Mycroft might actually be a good uncle.  He turned back to the bed, to Moran, and gave him one last look.

 

“Can you tell me when he’s awake and up to receiving guests. I’d like a few words with him.”

 

“Of course. The nurses think he’ll come round in a day or two, but I have a feeling he’ll wish he hadn’t. It was quite a tumble after all.”

 

“Oh… I’m sure it was.” Sherlock grinned, patted Charlotte on the back then turned to face Mycroft.

 

“Thank you, brother. I trust you’ll tell us how this happened.”

 

“Of course. Just not here. I’ll swing by the flat later, if you can stomach a little more waiting.”

 

“We can wait as long as you need.” John placed a hand on Sherlock’s back and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Maybe he hadn’t, maybe this had more of a mental _breath_ than physical. A weight off his shoulders instead. Either way, he let it out, and with his back turned to the bed, smiled.

  


***

 

John was just putting Charlotte down for her afternoon nap when the front door opened. No doorbell, no bodyguards, no Mrs. Hudson flitting about. Sherlock knew it was his brother, even before his telltale _step-tap-step-tap_ as his umbrella tapped the stairs every other step hit his ears.

 

For once in his life, Sherlock was happy to  see his brother. Without fuss, he ushered Mycroft to sit in his chair. Mycroft sat, and leaned his umbrella against the side of the chair, then crossed his legs.

 

"John's just..." Sherlock began, pointing upstairs. "She was falling asleep drinking her bottle."

 "A baby, Sherlock? Really?" Mycroft looked at his brother then raised his eyebrows ."Yes, Fatherhood suits you. 

"Yes, I rather think it does." Sherlock nodded, and picked up the, now empty, bottle up from John's chair. He stepped into the kitchen, placed the bottle in the sink, and without asking if Mycroft wanted tea, filled the kettle.

 

John joined them just as Sherlock was pouring the tea. He kissed Sherlock on the cheek, then with an exhausted sigh went and plopped down in his chair across from Mycroft. Sherlock brought the tea over to the table beside John's chair, then dragged a spare chair over to sit between his brother and husband. They formed a silent triangle, no one speaking. After a moment John sighed and slapped his hands down on his legs

 

"Out with it." He handed Sherlock his tea, then Mycroft his. "Tell us how it happened."

 

"Yes, I'm particularly interested in how he managed to fall out of a window multiple times." Sherlock added, giving his brother a knowing look.

 

"That network of yours, Sherlock, while.... smelly..." Mycroft winked his nose at the memory, "was invaluable in Moran's capture. He had managed to slip out of London after his initial sighting."  
  
"Wait, so we've been safe this whole time?" John started to ask, but clamped his mouth shut when Mycroft shot him a look for interrupting.

 

"One of the, shall we say, Urban Outdoors-men you hired spotted him when he tried to reenter the city. He stuck on Moran, while spreading the word that I was to be contacted."   
  
Mycroft paused, took a sip of his tea, then placed it down on the table and continued.   
  
"By the time I, well my men, arrived on the scene he was checking into a hotel not to far from here. My men made sure he stayed put... by some means of force, until I arrived.

 

He and I had a chat." Here Mycroft looked at John, and for a moment felt sympathy towards him. "In the end it was clear that he wasn't seeing my way of things. I may have lost my temper and pushed him through a window."   
  
"Thank you." It was more than just a thank you from John, and Mycroft understood. He was forgiven. Though, Mycroft couldn't figure out why, what had caused John to make such a decision.

 

Mycroft then began to go over evidence. Things he and his team had discovered about the disgraced Moran and his time in the Army. Aside from straight up treason, there was gun trafficking, drug trafficking, that little something about torture. With what they had on him, there wasn't a lawyer in the country who would cut him a deal. He was going away for life.

 

"What are the chances France will lend us a guillotine?" Sherlock asked, and John couldn't tell if he was serious or not.

 

"I could ask."

 

"As tempting as that is," John cut in, "I'd rather testify and watch him as he realizes he's caught. He isn't smart enough to do all this on his own... He's a lump of a man. Clearly he's working for someone. We need to find out who.”

 

“Exactly my thoughts, John.” While still appearing determined, Mycroft gave them a grim smile. “I'll tell my men to _appear_ to step back. You'll still have a security detail, however it'll be invisible to _mo_ st.”

 

Mycroft gathered up his umbrella, stood, straightened his suit jacket then looked from one man to the other.

 

“Take care of each other. You have another life depending on you now.”

 

“Yeah. We will.” John nodded and looked at  his husband. “we're all family. Family takes care of each other.”

 

“Quite.” Mycroft allowed himself a quick smile, then saw himself out.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter here I promise. Then part three


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, last chapter for real!! Next story coming soon!! I can't wait!

Charlotte was three by the time John and Sherlock, (mainly Sherlock, but John did help.) captured Moran's boss.   
  
Jim Moriarty was a hardened, brilliant, consulting criminal. Whatever people needed to be done, he was the man to go to. If you needed your wife murdered so you could marry your mistress without bothering with a nasty divorce, Moriarty would take care of it. For the right sum, your wife would be the subject to a nasty accident. Completely untraceable. Well, almost completely.  
  
It had almost killed Sherlock, the game that he and Moriarty played. It had also been the cause of many a fight between John and Sherlock when Sherlock risked too much. It had finally come to a head one day, a drizzly, depressing day. Moriarty was trying to debunk, to falsify, to turn Sherlock into a fraud. Trying to ruin the reputation Sherlock had tried so hard to build.    
  
They'd left their daughter with Mrs. Hudson that morning and ran... Lestrade had told them that the Chief Inspector was on his way, that they had maybe ten minutes before Sherlock was arrested for  _ "Tampering with evidence in dozens of cases" _ and that they should run.

  
John kissed Charlotte on the cheek, stroked her golden hair and bit back a sob as he placed their most treasured possession in the hands of their landlady, who'd become so much more to them over the years.   
  
"Be good for your Nan, we'll be back soon, yeah?" Sherlock leaned in and kissed Charlotte's other cheek then nodded his thanks to Mrs. Hudson.  
  
"Go," she said and nodded towards the back door. "finish this, and Sherlock," She grabbed his arm in a tight grip. "You keep that husband of yours  _ close _ , don't for an instant let him go." Sherlock nodded, then grabbed John's hand and they dashed out the back door just as sirens could be heard.

Five hours and one chat with a reporter, that lead to another mad dash for their life, they found themselves hiding inside St. Bart's lab waiting on results that could possibly set them free. Molly was there, a young doctor who did the autopsies.

Sherlock has struck up a sort of friendship with her, which John encouraged wholeheartedly. They were all trying to make sense of the mess when Sherlock's phone pinged.  
  
"Send that husband of yours away, and we can talk. Face to face, -JM"   
  
Sherlock stared at his phone for a few minutes, contemplating what to do. He could send John away, ensuring his safety. At least their daughter would have one parent left. But before he could settle on that choice of action, Mrs. Hudson's words rang through his head.  _ "Keep him close." _   
  
They  _ were  _ better together. Sherlock couldn't deny that.  
  
"John?" Sherlock looked over to where John was reading the news on his phone. John instantly snapped to attention and looked over. "Do you have your gun?"  
  
Making it look like John had left took a bit of brain work, and they couldn't have accomplished it without both the help of Mycroft and Molly.   
  
It took sending John away, the orchestration of a car accident, and an ambulance (sequestered with Molly's help) to bring him back. But within an hour, a "John look-a-like"  was entering 221, (the look-alike would also ensure the safety of Mrs. Hudson and Charlotte) and John was back in the lab beside his husband.   
  
"Now," Sherlock pulled John into his arms and held him close, breathing in the earthy tones of his husband, "you be extremely careful."    
  
"You too." John returned the embrace the reached up on his tiptoes to kiss Sherlock. "I'll be waiting."    
  
"He'll probably comb the roo..."   
  
"Sherlock, your brother has men stationed all around us, any possible sight for a sniper has been covered, and I've been well trained by the army. But yes, I will be careful, and I will be waiting. This ends today."

Moriarty did in fact scope the roof out. But John was waiting. His muscles, tight from crouching and tension, surprisingly gave him little trouble as he crouched around an air duct, the opposite direction of the evil genius. Soon enough, Moriarty deemed the roof safe, clearly thinking his hired men had his back, and sat down on the edge of the roof, swinging his legs over the edge of the ledge in a carefree manner.    
  
Sherlock waited the roughly ten minutes until his brother gave him the all clear. Exiting the service staircase, he made a point not to look in the direction where he knew John was hiding. Instead, he walked over to Moriarty, who flung a cigarette over the edge of the building and stood up.  
  
Due to the wind, John wasn't able to hear what was being said. But that didn't matter. His eyes were trained on Sherlock's hands, watching for the signal. If Sherlock crossed his fingers he would step in, and without batting his eyes, take Moriarty out.

It took less time than John thought. Within fifteen minutes Sherlock's fingers twitched, then crossed. John didn't need the signal to know it was time to step in, however. All he needed was the look on Sherlock's face. Rage. Pure rage. He'd clearly just threatened Charlotte, or himself, and that was inexcusable to Sherlock. John was good enough a shot that he didn't have to step closer. He could have simply straightened out, relaxed his shoulders.... and aimed. But this was more enjoyable.    
  
Careful not to let his shoes scuff as he crossed the helicopter pad, John waited until he was only a few hundred paces away, and cleared his throat. Moriarty turned and was just about to open his mouth, when Sherlock sidestepped, so he was no longer in the trajectory of the bullet that would soon find itself, if not lodge in, passing through Moriarty's head.  
  
Sherlock still jumped when the gun went off. He still made sure it was Moriarty dead, not his husband, then stepped away from the blood pooling up on the roof. Carefully stepping over the dead body, and pausing to make sure he was, in fact, dead, Sherlock reached John and looked him in the eyes.  
  
"You alright?"    
  
"Mmm yes. Why wouldn't I be?" John clicked the safety back on and put his gun away.   
  
"Well, you have just killed a man." Sherlock placed his hands on John's forearms and smiled down at him.   
  
"Yeah well, he was a bastard. Who'd he threaten, me or Charlotte?" John met Sherlock's gaze and took in a steadying breath.

  
"You, Charlie, and Mrs. H. Oh, and Lestrade." Sherlock looked back to the body, then back at John. “So, bastard, yes that fits."    
  
"Good. Mycroft will clean this up?" John asked and looked past Sherlock.   
  
"Yes, he's already working on the media as well. I say within a week we'll be able to show our faces in London again."    
  
"Well, that's comforting." John cleared his throat then put a hand around Sherlock. "Let's go home. I need to hug our daughter."

“Marvelous idea. Shall we get dinner on the way back?”

“Mmm starving.” John nodded as they walked in tandem to the stairs.

“The Chinese at the end of Baker Street?” 

“But no guessing the fortune cookies.”


End file.
